Under the Lilacs (24 page)

“I’ll tell you how we’ll do it,” said Thorny, breaking a long silence as Betty composed herself with an irrepressible wriggle
of delight after one of these refreshing peeps. “We’ll keep Sanch hidden, and smuggle him into Ben’s old room at your house.
Then I’ll drive on to the barn, and not say a word, but send Ben to get something out of that room. You just let him in, to
see what he’ll do. I’ll bet you a dollar he won’t know his own dog.”

“I don’t believe I
can
keep from screaming right out when I see him, but I’ll try. Oh, won’t it be fun!”— and Betty clapped her hands in joyful
anticipation of that exciting moment.

A nice little plan, but Master Thorny forgot the keen senses of the amiable animal snoring peacefully among his boots; and,
when they stopped at the Lodge, he had barely time to say in a whisper, “Ben’s coming; cover Sanch and let me get him in quick!”
before the dog was out of the phaeton like a bombshell, and the approaching boy went down as if shot, for Sancho gave one
leap, and the two rolled over and over, with a shout and a bark of rapturous recognition.

“Who is hurt?” asked Mrs. Moss, running out with floury hands uplifted in alarm.

“Is it a bear?” cried Bab, rushing after her, eggbeater in hand, for a dancing bear was the desire of her heart.

“Sancho’s found! Sancho’s found!” shouted Thorny, throwing up his hat like a lunatic.

“Found, found, found!” echoed Betty, dancing wildly about as if she too had lost her little wits.

“Where? how? when? who did it?” asked Mrs. Moss, clapping her dusty hands delightedly.

“It isn’t; it’s an old dirty brown thing,” stammered Bab, as the dog came uppermost for a minute, and then rooted into Ben’s
jacket as if he smelt a woodchuck, and was bound to have him out directly.

Then Thorny, with many interruptions from Betty, poured forth the wondrous tale, to which Bab and her mother listened breathlessly,
while the muffins burned as black as a coal, and nobody cared a bit.

“My precious lamb, how did you dare to do such a thing?” exclaimed Mrs. Moss, hugging the small heroine with mingled admiration
and alarm.

“I’d have dared, and slapped those horrid boys, too. I
wish
I’d gone!” and Bab felt that she had forever lost the chance of distinguishing herself.

“Who cut his tail off?” demanded Ben, in a menacing tone, as he came uppermost in his turn, dusty, red and breathless, but
radiant.

“The wretch who stole him, I suppose; and he deserves to be hung,” answered Thorny, hotly.

“If ever I catch him, I’ll — I’ll cut his nose off,” roared Ben, with such a vengeful glare that Sanch barked fiercely; and
it was well that the unknown “wretch” was not there, for it would have gone hardly with him, since even gentle Betty frowned,
while Bab brandished the eggbeater menacingly, and their mother indignantly declared that “it was
too
bad!”

Relieved by this general outburst, they composed their outraged feelings; and while the returned wanderer went
from one to another to receive a tender welcome from each, the story of his recovery was more calmly told. Ben listened with
his eye devouring the injured dog; and when Thorny paused, he turned to the little heroine, saying solemnly, as he laid her
hand with his own on Sancho’s head —

“Betty Moss, I’ll never forget what you did; from this minute half of Sanch is your truly own, and if I die you shall have
the whole of him,” and Ben sealed the precious gift with a sounding kiss on either chubby cheek.

Betty was so deeply touched by this noble bequest that the blue eyes filled and would have overflowed if Sanch had not politely
offered his tongue like a red pocket-handkerchief, and so made her laugh the drops away, while Bab set the rest off by saying,
gloomily —

“I mean to play with all the mad dogs I can find; then folks will think
I’m
smart and give
me
nice things.”

“Poor old Bab, I’ll forgive you now, and lend you my half whenever you want it,” said Ben, feeling at peace now with all mankind,
including girls who tagged.

“Come and show him to Celia,” begged Thorny, eager to fight his battles over again.

“Better wash him up first; he’s a sight to see, poor thing,” suggested Mrs. Moss, as she ran in, suddenly remembering her
muffins.

“It will take a lot of washings to get that brown stuff off. See, his pretty pink skin is all stained with it. We’ll bleach
him out, and his curls will grow, and he’ll be as good as ever — all but —”

Ben could not finish, and a general wail went up for the departed tassel that would never wave proudly in the breeze again.

“I’ll buy him a new one. Now form the procession and let us go in style,” said Thorny, cheerily, as he swung Betty to his
shoulder and marched away whistling “Hail! the conquering hero comes,” while Ben and his bowwow followed arm-in-arm, and Bab
brought up the rear, banging on a milk pan with the eggbeater.

C
HAPTER
18

I
f Sancho’s abduction made a stir, one may easily imagine with what warmth and interest he was welcomed back when his wrongs
and wanderings were known. For several days he held regular levees, that curious boys and sympathizing girls might see and
pity the changed and curtailed dog. Sanch behaved with dignified affability, and sat upon his mat in the coach house pensively
eyeing his guests, and patiently submitting to their caresses; while Ben and Thorny took turns to tell the few tragical facts
which were not shrouded in the deepest mystery. If the interesting sufferer could only have spoken, what thrilling adventures
and hairbreadth escapes he might have related. But, alas! he was dumb; and the secrets of that memorable month never were
revealed.

The lame paw soon healed, the dingy color slowly yielded to many washings, the woolly coat began to knot up into little curls,
a new collar, handsomely marked, made him a respectable dog, and Sancho was himself again. But it was evident that his sufferings
were not forgotten; his once sweet temper was a trifle soured; and, with a few exceptions, he had lost his faith in mankind.
Before, he had been
the most benevolent and hospitable of dogs; now, he eyed all strangers suspiciously, and the sight of a shabby man made him
growl and bristle up, as if the memory of his wrongs still burned hotly within him.

Fortunately, his gratitude was stronger than his resentment, and he never seemed to forget that he owed his life to Betty
— running to meet her whenever she appeared, instantly obeying her commands, and suffering no one to molest her when he walked
watchfully beside her, with her hand upon his neck, as they had walked out of the almost fatal back yard together, faithful
friends for ever.

Miss Celia called them little Una and her lion, and read the pretty story to the children when they wondered what she meant.
Ben, with great pains, taught the dog to spell “Betty,” and surprised her with a display of this new accomplishment, which
gratified her so much that she was never tired of seeing Sanch paw the five red letters into place, then come and lay his
nose in her hand, as if he added, “That’s the name of my dear mistress.”

Of course Bab was glad to have everything pleasant and friendly again; but in a little dark corner of her heart there was
a drop of envy, and a desperate desire to do something which would make everyone in her small world like and praise her as
they did Betty. Trying to be as good and gentle did not satisfy her; she must
do
something brave or surprising, and no chance for distinguishing herself in that way seemed likely to appear. Betty was as
fond as ever, and the boys were very kind to her; but she felt that they both liked “little Betcinda,” as they called her,
best, because she found Sanch, and never seemed to know that she had done anything brave in defending him against all odds.
Bab did not tell anyone how she felt, but endeavored to be amiable,
while waiting for her chance to come; and, when it did arrive, made the most of it, though there was nothing heroic to add
a charm.

Miss Celia’s arm had been doing very well, but would, of course, be useless for some time longer. Finding that the afternoon
readings amused herself as much as they did the children, she kept them up, and brought out all her old favorites, enjoying
a double pleasure in seeing that her young audience relished them as much as she did when a child; for to all but Thorny they
were brand new. Out of one of these stories came much amusement for all, and satisfaction for one of the party.

“Celia, did you bring our old bows?” asked her brother, eagerly, as she put down the book from which she had been reading
Miss Edgeworth’s capital story of “Waste Not Want Not; or, Two Strings to Your Bow.”

“Yes, I brought all the playthings we left stored away in uncle’s garret when we went abroad. The bows are in the long box
where you found the mallets, fishing rods, and bats. The old quivers and a few arrows are there also, I believe. What is the
idea now?” asked Miss Celia in her turn, as Thorny bounced up in a great hurry.

“I’m going to teach Ben to shoot. Grand fun this hot weather; and by and by we’ll have an archery meeting, and you can give
us a prize. Come on, Ben. I’ve got plenty of whipcord to rig up the bows, and then we’ll show the ladies some first-class
shooting.”

“
I
can’t; never had a decent bow in my life. The little gilt one I used to wave round when I was a Coopid wasn’t worth a cent
to go,” answered Ben, feeling as if that painted “prodigy” must have been a very distant connection of the respectable young
person now walking off arm in arm with the lord of the manor.

“Practice is all you want. I used to be a capital shot, but I don’t believe I could hit anything but a barn door now,” answered
Thorny, encouragingly.

As the boys vanished, with much tramping of boots and banging of doors, Bab observed, in the young-ladyish tone she was apt
to use when she composed her active little mind and body to the feminine task of needlework —

“We used to make bows of whalebone when we were little girls, but we are too old to play so now.”

“I’d like to, but Bab won’t, ‘cause she’s most ‘leven years old,” said honest Betty, placidly rubbing her needle in the “ruster,”
as she called the family emery bag.

“Grown people enjoy archery, as bow and arrow shooting is called, especially in England. I was reading about it the other
day, and saw a picture of Queen Victoria with her bow; so you needn’t be ashamed of it, Bab,” said Miss Celia, rummaging among
the books and papers in her sofa corner to find the magazine she wanted, thinking a new play would be as good for the girls
as for the big boys.

“A queen, just think!” and Betty looked much impressed by the fact, as well as uplifted by the knowledge that her friend did
not agree in thinking her silly because she preferred playing with a harmless homemade toy to firing stones or snapping a
popgun.

“In old times, bows and arrows were used to fight great battles with; and we read how the English archers shot so well that
the air was dark with arrows, and many men were killed.”

“So did the Indians have ’em; and I’ve got some stone arrowheads — found ’em by the river, in the dirt!” cried Bab, waking
up, for battles interested her more than queens.

“While you finish your stints I’ll tell you a little story about the Indians,” said Miss Celia, lying back on her cushions,
while the needles began to go again, for the prospect of a story could not be resisted.

“A century or more ago, in a small settlement on the banks of the Connecticut — which means the Long River of Pines — there
lived a little girl called Matty Kilburn. On a hill stood the fort where the people ran for protection in any danger, for
the country was new and wild, and more than once the Indians had come down the river in their canoes and burned the houses,
killed men, and carried away women and children. Matty lived alone with her father, but felt quite safe in the log house,
for he was never far away. One afternoon, as the farmers were all busy in their fields, the bell rang suddenly — a sign that
there was danger near — and, dropping their rakes or axes, the men hurried to their houses to save wives and babies, and such
few treasures as they could. Mr. Kilburn caught up his gun with one hand and his little girl with the other, and ran as fast
as he could toward the fort. But before he could reach it he heard a yell, and saw the red men coming up from the river. Then
he knew it would be in vain to try to get in, so he looked about for a safe place to hide Matty till he could come for her.
He was a brave man, and could fight, so he had no thought of hiding while his neighbors needed help; but the dear little daughter
must be cared for first.

“In the corner of the lonely pasture which they dared not cross, stood a big hollow elm, and there the farmer hastily hid
Matty, dropping her down into the dim nook, round the mouth of which young shoots had grown, so that no one would have suspected
any hole was there.

“’Lie still, child, till I come; say your prayers and wait for father,’ said the man, as he parted the leaves for a last glance
at the small, frightened face looking up at him.